Love...Maybe

by Gill Paul

‘Admiring yourself in the mirror, old boy?’ Helen grinned, tickling him behind the ears as he planted his backside down to watch her work with enquiring eyes.

  Either side of her knees were two deeper drawers with larger versions of those crystal pulls, and Helen opened each in turn and ran her polishing cloth over the insides, picturing her own possessions inside them before the day was out. The first three slid easily back into place, but the last one seemed to stick. She tried a second time, and once again encountered a blockage. Strange … It had definitely been in all of the way when she’d sat down, yet now it was standing an inch proud of the dressing table. Intrigued, she dropped onto her knees and pulled the drawer all the way out of the dresser and inspected it for damage, but it was perfectly fine. Laying it aside, she ran her hand around inside the cavity, feeling for anything that might be causing the problem. Just as she was about to give up, her fingers encountered something tucked right at the very back. Frowning, she twisted her hand around to get a better feel of it, and then dipped her head into the gloomy space to try to see what it was. Something was hanging from the base of the drawer above. It looked like an envelope. Had she dislodged it by moving the drawers around? Closing her fingers around it, she pulled it forward and laid it carefully on top of the dressing table, and a shaft of daylight touched the age-yellowed paper for the first time in almost one hundred and forty years.

  Chapter Five

  Up in the attic, Xanthe lay on the bed and planned the demise of that cat. Mog. Who called a cat Mog? She’d scorned Helen’s name choice when she’d heard it being called up the stairs, and disliked it even more when Alice had found great humour in sharing the fact that the name belonged to a fictional witch’s cat. Damn cat. And damn Helen, for that matter. Xanthe hated change, and this new young creature with her stompy boots and fancy hair clips and bright red lips represented a complete sea change for number seventeen Delaney Street. Over the years since her own death, Xanthe had been lucky enough to land two easily manipulated female tenants in Sarah and Alice, but this one was different somehow. Harder to read, more difficult to gauge, and therefore trickier to subtly control. It wasn’t as if Xanthe asked for much. Her only stipulation for the newest custodian of the house was a complete man ban. She’d been lenient with Sarah and Alice, and through watching their heartbreak she’d learned only that her own way was indeed the best way.

  Was a man ban so much to ask, given that they were such fickle, imperfect creatures? They were led by far less savoury parts of their body than their hearts, and they certainly weren’t capable of true love. She’d learned that the hard way – not that she hadn’t exacted her just revenge, of course. A broken heart for two broken legs, four cracked ribs and a fractured shoulder, to be exact, but even then she’d still felt that he’d had the better end of the deal.

  Helen hadn’t been the first person to view the house. Xanthe had dismissed all earlier applicants, most of them because they came with screaming hordes of children, who were second only to cats on her banned list. Wedding rings were another no-no. Romance of any kind, in fact; Helen had only made it through the selection process by virtue of the fact that Ian had been so easily dispatched. Xanthe had barely needed to meddle there at all; the house itself had worked its magic on Helen long before Xanthe even involved herself.

  If the girl could just keep to the rules, she might just let her live. The cat, however, was a different matter. Helen might call him Mog, but that wasn’t his name. Of all the ordinary cats there must have been in the cat shelter, Helen had managed to come home with a powerful witch’s familiar. More than seventy years old but with the appealing face of a youngster, he radiated a power and magnetism that couldn’t, and wouldn’t, go unchallenged.

  *

  Helen turned the lumpy old envelope over in her hands, wondering what to do. The paper had worn to a smooth crackle, but she could still read the swirly words written in jade-green ink on the front. It simply said: ‘To whom it may concern, this envelope is none of your concern. Put it back and mind your own business.’

  Helen had laughed out loud at the spiky message when she’d first read it. Clearly it had been written by someone in a terrible mood, and equally clearly it had been wedged in the bottom of that drawer for a very long time. Whoever the owner was, they weren’t coming back for it. She’d bought the house at auction, sold as seen, contents and all. This was now fairly and squarely her dressing table, and therefore her envelope, and whatever lay inside it also belonged to her. She itched to open it. Absolutely itched. By the feel of it, it contained an object as well as a letter, but she couldn’t make it out by feeling it because it was so well wrapped inside the paper.

  If she didn’t open it, what would she do with it? She could wedge it back inside the drawer, but she’d always know it was there and burn to open it. Or she could discard it, but that seemed worse than opening it, because, after all, someone had cared enough about the contents to conceal them. Or she could, of course, just open it.

  *

  In the attic, Xanthe sat bolt upright on the bed. Something was wrong.

  In the bedroom, Helen eased a finger under the edge of the flap of the envelope.

  In the kitchen, Mog curled up in the warmth of his new basket and purred.

  *

  Peeling the envelope open, Helen tipped its contents carefully out onto the freshly polished wood. A letter, folded, its secrets still intact. A photograph, face down and curled at the edges. A wedding invitation, yellowed card overlaid with elegant calligraphy. And lastly a small, palm-sized package tied with bright green ribbon.

  Which to look at first? Helen deliberated and then slowly turned over the photograph. A woman gazed back at her, someone around the same age, someone with the same dark hair and eyes. The similarities ended there, though. Where Helen was petite and round limbed, this woman was tall and whippet thin, with her hair drawn severely from her face and her prim, full-length dark dress. Beside her stood a dashing man in military uniform, taller and broader than his companion. They weren’t smiling, yet her arm linked territorially through his, and something in her eyes spoke of her excitement. In small black print across the bottom of the photograph ran the words: ‘To commemorate the engagement of Xanthe Betina McCallister to Mr. Eugene Lucas Robinson, 18 April 1877.’ It was only when she looked at the photo again that she spotted the stonking great engagement ring on Xanthe’s left hand.

  Looking next at the invitation, Helen read the official wedding invitation for the wedding of Xanthe and Eugene in the summer of 1877. By all accounts it had promised to be a grand affair, and if that ring was anything to go on, no expense would have been spared.

  Helen laid the invitation down alongside the photograph thoughtfully. The green-ribboned package lay beside the folded letter. Which one next? She touched her fingertips against the letter, and then thought better of it and hesitantly picked up the small package instead. It had to be acknowledged; opening it felt mildly intrusive. It wasn’t a gift intended for her, was it? But then if indeed it was a gift intended for anyone, they weren’t coming to get it anytime soon, were they? It had been hidden in the old dressing table for many, many years; more than a hundred and thirty, if the date on the engagement photo was an accurate yardstick.

  The ribbon fell open with a gentle tug, the green silk concertina’d with creases from being so long held in the same position. Helen held her breath as she carefully folded back the stiff brown wrapping paper to reveal a black leather ring box. She stilled for a second, and on a hunch, her eyes moved back to the photo. With trepidation, she prised open the lid on the box.

  Inside the box, nestled in black velvet, lay the most breathtaking ring Helen had ever seen. A huge central square emerald, its colour so intense and electric that it practically jumped from the box. Diamonds surrounded it, forming an incandescent flower-shaped cluster in a Victorian setting. Despite its age, it looked eclectically modern and entirely decadent, a statement piece that begged to be worn. Absolutely begge
d. Helen stroked the stone reverentially, riveted. Her fingers ached to try it. Would it fit? She almost didn’t want to pull it from the box in case it didn’t.

  Swallowing hard, she turned her attention at last to the fourth and final piece of the puzzle. The letter. Opening it up, she smoothed it out on the dressing table and started to read the script, the same looping green handwriting as the envelope.

  To whomever is reading this letter,

  So your curiosity got the better of you, did it? You ought to be ashamed of yourself, I expressly told you that this really is none of your business.

  However, seeing as you are here, I’ll safely assume you have little regard for my privacy and are already, as you read this, wearing my ring. I’m right, aren’t I?

  Helen allowed herself a small preen of self-rightousness at her unadorned fingers and then read on.

  I’m sure you’ve pieced together the fact that this is my engagement ring. Stunning, isn’t it? The emerald is Columbian, and the diamonds were sourced from an old mine in Rhodesia. Nothing but the best for my girl, he said, when he gave it to me. It’s a great pity, then, that he didn’t feel that the best thing was to join me at the altar! A rather unforgivable oversight on Eugene’s part, if I am to be truthful, and it seems that I am.

  May I offer you a piece of advice? If you are a person of a sensible persuasion, you’ll reseal this envelope with its contents inside and place it back where you found it, because – how can I say this without causing you alarm? Although actually, given that you’re reading this against my wishes, I have scant regard for your feelings, so I’ll be blunt. This ring is enchanted. As is this dressing table. As is this house. I can say this with absolute confidence, because I enchanted them myself. For as long as these three things remain together, then the spell cannot be broken.

  Dearest snooper, I do so hope you’re not a romantic, or else the details of the curse might cause you significant distress.

  From this day forwards, anyone who resides in this house will not be encumbered by matters of the heart. You are free of all romantic endeavours, and will not be troubled by false love – and where men are concerned, there is no other kind. Is that hard to hear, dear sweet innocent child wearing my beautiful ring?

  You’re imagining that you can unpick my hard work by simply removing one of these items from the house, aren’t you?

  Please. I’m a witch. I’m ten paces ahead of you. You can slide this ring on your wedding finger. You can wear it inside these walls. It fits you perfectly, doesn’t it? I know. It fits everyone. But should you attempt to remove it from the house, it’ll grow tighter and tighter until your poor little wedding finger is severed clean from your body. (You might consider that the ring is worth it – after all, you’ll have no use for a wedding finger from here on in, but disfigurement is rather unpleasant.)

  Put the ring back where you found it and live by the rules of the house, or else leave.

  Enchantingly yours,

  Xanthe McCallister

  Helen slid the ring onto her wedding finger, and humming happily under her breath, headed downstairs to find Mog.

  Chapter Six

  Xanthe, Sarah and Alice sat at the kitchen table late that evening watching Helen chop vegetables for a stir fry.

  ‘How come neither of us ever found the ring?’ Alice splayed her bare left hand and scowled. ‘It would have suited me better than Xanthe, or Helen for that matter.’

  ‘I could never even get that drawer to open,’ Sarah sighed. ‘Believe me, I tried.’

  ‘You weren’t meant to,’ Xanthe grouched. ‘And neither was she.’ She shot daggers at Helen, who on cue paused and held her hand up to the light to admire the emerald.

  ‘I think she’s expecting company,’ Alice’s eyes glinted with approval as Helen moved across and laid two places at the dining table. ‘I wonder if it’s a man?’

  Xanthe frowned. Surely Helen wouldn’t be so bold as to ignore the warning she’d received about Delaney Street? Already rattled by the sight of the ring after so long, she took a few seconds to enjoy the idea of hurling Helen down the stairs if she brought a man in here tonight. Her lip curled with distaste as Helen stooped and gathered Mog up in her arms.

  ‘I think it’s almost time, Moggy,’ she said, looking up at the clock and then rubbing her chin against the cat’s head. The cat looked across at Xanthe with a self-satisfied wink.

  *

  At exactly half past seven that night, the door bell of number seventeen Delaney Street chimed, an old-fashioned bell to herald the arrival of a caller.

  Helen paused before opening the door, her hand on the worn wooden frame. Poor old house, labouring for so long under Xanthe’s cold curses. Through the glass she could make out a male form, and already her heart beat a little faster in anticipation. She’d asked for him, and now he was here. Giving herself a little mental shake, she opened the door.

  *

  ‘Who is it?’ Alice asked, jostling with Sarah to get a better view.

  ‘How should I know?’ Sarah strained to catch the conversation, and then frowned. ‘I’m not even sure Helen does.’

  Neither of them noticed Xanthe hovering a little behind them, her hands clamped against her cheeks in shock. She’d know those eyes anywhere. Eugene.

  *

  ‘I’m sorry, I know it must sound weird,’ he said, smiling in a way that made Helen’s heart backflip. ‘It’s just I found these wedding rings today in an old suitcase in my parent’s attic, and the note with them mentioned this address. I think it was written by my great grandpa Eugene … or even my great, great grandpa? I thought … I don’t know, I thought I might be able to return them to their rightful owner somehow.’ He looked embarrassed. ‘Seems crazy now. It was a long time ago.’

  Helen looked at the rings on his upturned palm and then back up to his guileless face.

  ‘Wow,’ she smiled, small at first and then wider. ‘Would you, um … Would you like to come in?’

  He smiled too, and as he walked past her into the hall he paused. ‘I’m Lucas, by the way. I honestly don’t normally do this kind of thing, knocking on strangers’ doors with wedding rings in my hand.’

  ‘It’s not something that’s ever happened to me either,’ Helen said, looking at him, taking him all in, feeling as if she’d known him always. ‘I’m glad you came,’ she said softly. ‘I’m Helen.’

  ‘Hello, Helen,’ he said, and no words had ever sounded lovelier.

  He stared right back at her, the girl he knew without doubt would one day be his wife.

  She placed a hand on his arm and he noticed the ring on her wedding finger. She followed his gaze, and then slid it off and laid it on the hall table. ‘Out of a Christmas cracker,’ she laughed. ‘Go on into the lounge.’ She gestured him into the front room. ‘I’ll be through in just a sec.’

  *

  Helen walked into the kitchen and closed the door, then turned to Xanthe, Sarah and Alice.

  ‘Right you lot. Time to go.’

  All three ghosts at the kitchen table opened their eyes wide in shock.

  ‘You can see us?’ Alice spluttered.

  ‘You can hear us?’ Sarah managed, her fingers clutching the pearls around her dainty neck.

  ‘And you can speak to us,’ Xanthe said, realising too late that she’d been had. It took a witch to know a witch.

  ‘Please. I’m a witch. I’m ten paces ahead of you,’ Helen said, casting a knowing look at Xanthe before glancing back towards the door in case Lucas came in. ‘Now, lovely as it’s been having your company, this isn’t a Mamma Mia! convention. You three have got to go.’

  Alice laughed, the only one who got the Mamma Mia! reference. ‘I’d definitely be the hot one.’

  ‘Go?’ Xanthe said. ‘Not likely. This is my house. You can’t make me leave.’

  ‘I beg to differ,’ Helen said. ‘Look.’ She opened the door and lead them back into the hallway, then pointed up at the sparkling stained glass window. As they s
tood there, the letters jostled and moved, then settled contentedly into their new places.

  ‘Amor Vincit Omnia?’ Sarah read, slowly.

  Helen nodded, proud of her research and her handiwork. ‘Love conquers all.’ Moving into Delaney Street alone had felt appropriate at the time, but finding out about Xanthe’s love curse had made Helen realise that she didn’t want to spend her life alone. Xanthe’s magic had been strong, but Helen’s was stronger. She hadn’t realised quite how strong until she’d opened the door and found that by summoming her true love she’d actally managed to summon Eugene’s great, great grandson. There was a delicious serendipity to it, a symmetry across the years; number seventeen Delaney Street had finally got itself a lovestruck witch.

  Xanthe practically howled, because as hard as she tried, she couldn’t make the letters go back. The emerald ring vibrated noisily on the table as the enchantment died, and upstairs, the air around the old dressing table shimmered and then popped like a bubble blown by a young child, leaving nothing but ordinariness behind.

  Mog strolled in and curled around his mistress’s ankles, and Xanthe realised that the old familiar hadn’t been an accidental choice at all.

  Helen opened the door.

  ‘Time to go, ladies,’ she said, nodding out towards the night.

  Xanthe made a last half-hearted attempt at rearranging the stained glass letters and then furiously snapped her fingers towards Sarah and Alice, turning them smartly into a pair of startled white rabbits. A second later, they were accompanied in the hallway by a lithe golden hare, who stared fleetingly at Helen with its clear blue eyes before turning on its haunches and leading its charges down the garden path.

  Helen watched them go. ‘I hear Greece is delightful this time of year,’ she called after them. ‘Although you might want to buy an Abba CD on the way!’

  Was it Helen’s imagination, or did one of those white bunnies do a little shimmy as it bounded down Delaney Street?